


Five Times Rorshach Doesn't Use His Powers And One Time He Does

by ArchangelAzrael



Series: Black, White, and Specks of Gray [1]
Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 06:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5774890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelAzrael/pseuds/ArchangelAzrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one thinks that Rorschach has powers like everybody else, yet he's never underestimated. Why, he's not sure. But if he ever is, he knows it won't happen again. He'll make sure of it.</p><p>Only slightly slash if you squint. The rest of the fluff and stuff will be in the rest of the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Rorshach Doesn't Use His Powers And One Time He Does

I.

The first hit he feels is a kick to the ribs. It's not _his_ ribs but it knocks the wind out of him nonetheless. He takes a sharp breath as he sits up in bed, trying not to upset the nonexistent wound. It doesn't help that he was stabbed near his lungs earlier this evening by a man “attempting to rape” a woman a couple of blocks from his apartment. It had turned out to be another attempt at taking his life. After he had disarmed the situation, the supposed victim had turned around and stabbed him. Luckily, when she was approaching him in what he believed to be a grateful embrace, he had stepped to the side to avoid it, so the knife ended up impaled on his side rather than a vital body part.

Rorschach releases a deep sigh, his eyes still closed. They were both dead now. They were no longer a problem and neither should someone else's pain be. But as much as he tries to ignore it and place it in the background of a city that's always bleeding, he can't help but mull it over like a tongue searching for a missing tooth. Whether he showed it or not, every wince, every tortured scream, every grieving cry of agony was merely just an extension of himself.

The location isn't very far from where he is now. He's almost tempted to do something about it, but the nature of which the injuries are being inflicted stop him. He can sense a struggle between two strong forces, one of which is obviously losing and giving him a hell of headache. The pain is escalating far too quickly for him to be of any relief by the time he gets there. He would only be a liability with his injury and the tenfold that he's receiving. Every punch feels like a battering ram and it's only when he wraps his hand around the grappling gun under his pillow that he remembers that he's not there on the other end of it.

The pain is familiar. Every throb is loud and obnoxious, not caring who it offends. Every cut burns like the butt of a cigarette and his gasps have a smokey aftertaste. Once he lets out a groan, stifling it in his pillow so as not to let the neighbors' minds speculate, he figures out why he's feeling this so vividly. Why he's so close to this random defeat. Without warning, the pain suddenly fades and he lets out a breath that he hadn't realized that he was holding. He reaches for his journal, opens it, and writes:

_October 12, 1985- Tonight, a comedian died in New York._

 

II.

Some irrational part of him actually thought this was going to go well. He'd laugh if he were sure that a lump wouldn't unwillingly form in his throat. The plan had been simple:

1\. Warn Daniel of potential mask killer.

2\. Possibly berate him for his current civilian status.

3\. Apologize in a vague statement that could be interpreted as an insult or a compliment.

4\. Exit the way he had come.

It would've gone without a hitch if there weren't some small, weak part of his mind that hoped that this would be Daniel's call to action. That the threat to his life and those close to him would open his eyes to the horrors of the streets that he walked on, the dark corners and alleys that he tried to ignore in the daylight. Maybe if he would just listen and put aside Dan Dreiberg the civilian for just a moment, he would snap out of this mundane phase of his life and embrace Nite Owl again. Embrace his partner, Rorschach again. Embrace the dangerous, “will I see the sun rise?” nights again. As he said before, it was a moment of weakness, a lapse into a groundless mentality. It would not happen again.

Daniel had said and done all the wrong things, as if he had anticipated his arrival after all these years. He had immediately smiled away his theory as invalid, a jumped to conclusion. Waving off Comedian's death as a political killing or a vengeful villain like The Silhouette's murderer. The ease of which Daniel threw excuses at his face got his blood boiling, the inkblots on his face moving rapidly against his cheeks. It was at this point that he tossed his plans into the inner circles of hell and just went straight for berating.

When was the last time he went to the gym? If he had so much money, why didn't he go get a haircut? Was there ever a time that he didn't have luxuries such as air conditioning and heating on full blast? Why didn't he make a fancy gadget to shrink him down a few inches so Rorschach could properly smack some sense into him? These were the questions he shot at Daniel, each question mark punctuated intended to be a slice across the armor that he wasn't wearing anymore. He didn't expect retaliation, but he seemed to have forgotten that Daniel was once one of the few people that Rorschach never underestimated. Maybe he still shouldn't be.

What had started as Rorschach warning his only friend of potential danger quickly deteriorated into another squabble between the former crime fighting duo. Daniel opened his mouth and released exclamations and probing that would've stripped Rorschach's armor off piece by piece if he were wearing any. But Rorschach latched on to the last question, the one with the most obvious and yet complex answer, the one he wished there _wasn't_ an answer to but they both felt its presence, like an old friend.

_What happened to us, Rorschach?_

Like an old, retired friend. An old friend that had such high hopes for the city he lived in yet had abandoned it once it thought it had grown up and told him, “We don't need you anymore.” An old but innovative friend who was always seeing the best in people and was too soft to end a man's criminal activity once and for all, but could still be intimidating enough to send them running to the cops. There was no “what happened to us?” There was only what _didn't_ happen. What _didn't_ happen to Daniel to make him believe that the world was better off without masks. It takes all of his self control and restraint not to hit him right there, remind him of every person he failed to save and would continue to fail. Make him hear the screams and cries for help that were always thudding against his ears, so frequent that he had willed himself to reduce it to static, only to be heard when he flipped the switch and raised his antenna to listen. He held it all in like a rubber band wrapped tightly around his thumb and forefinger, but it was taut, waiting for just the right moment to snap it out of his palm at an unfortunate target.

But it looked like that target wasn't going to be Daniel. It was foolish of him to think it would be. They may not be partners anymore, but the terms and principles of their relationship still stand strong. He would protect Nite Owl II. Fight on his side as long as it was pure. Never hurt him. And though he would never admit it aloud, he knows that the sentiment is returned. That or Daniel enjoyed leaving out cans of beans and bottles of water for the nonexistent rats in his basement. Besides, nostalgia and regret could inflict a lot more pain than he would care to accomplish against his friend. He can feel it now in the back of Daniel's throat, a decade old ball of grief clogged in his esophagus, confused as to whether it should roll it's way up to his mouth through a sob or just be swallowed down again. Rorschach almost wishes that he could push it down for him, but that's not what his abilities allow him to do.

“You quit,” he finally responds, emotionally detaching himself from the situation and leaving Daniel sitting glumly on the doorstep as he heads away from the light of the tunnel. It was in the past now.

Daniel swallowed that lump in his throat, Rorschach notes.

III.

This is the second time he's passed by him today. Daniel is standing in front of the new restaurant that opened down the block from where he lived, skimming through a menu with cursive and italicized print, merely a few feet away from the man he once called his partner oh so long ago. Rorschach wonders if he's noticed. He wonders what would change if he did.

It's somewhat pleasant like this, to be in close proximity without the history and tension that now occupies the space between them. Like a gas, it fills the space of whatever container it's in, even more so when he lets himself be coaxed beyond Daniel's basement. Bonus points if he's bleeding.

He shifts his position on the sidewalk once Daniel goes in, only to move back when he sees him come out, now joined by a female companion. Daniel laughs at something she says as they take a seat outside, a waiter handing them menus and placing a basket of bread sticks between them.

Upon further observation he realizes that the female is none other than the infamous Ms. Juspeczyk. His ears perk as the two enter a deeper conversation than the small talk they had started with. Juspeczyk is anything but discreet, as usual. He already dislikes the topic.

“He visited you too?” She asks, taking one of the bread sticks to taste.

“Yeah, he came to my place to tell me that I might be a target to a killer on the loose. You?” Daniel replies, following her lead with the bread sticks once she gestures for him to take one. Must be nice.

“Same. He visited Jon and I while he was working on that latest invention that everyone's going so nuts about.”

Rorschach can tell without looking that this was what caught Daniel's attention. He can picture him now, gears turning in his mind and eyes lit up like a Christmas tree...

“Oh you mean the one on the cover of just about every newspaper? Something about a nuclear d--”

...of course, Ms. Juspeczyk didn't share his interests. She cuts him off before he could elaborate. As rude as it might appear, Rorschach could relate to need to shut Daniel down before he even got started on his aerodynamics and engineering tangents. Though he felt that Ms. Juspeczyk did this more often than he did. Occasionally he found it endearing to listen to someone speak about something they were passionate about.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah real fancy stuff. I want no part of it, or him, or that creep, Rorschach.”

What had he done to this woman?

“Oh he's not that bad.”

“Really? You're chummy with the guy that goes around killing people, never takes his mask off, and thinks that attempted rape is just a 'moral lapse'?”

Ah. Not the best choice of words at the time. Still too soon. Wound still too raw, decades later amongst a different generation.

“Look, I may not agree with his views and values, and he takes some getting used to, but he's one of the good guys when you get down to it.”

“Daniel, the Comedian attempted to rape my mother and he thought it was fine. He's messed up.”

Hmph. Not wrong Ms. Juspeczyk, not wrong. But don't have enough knowledge and significant evidence to prove yourself right either.

A brief pause.“Yeah he is,” Daniel finally says.

Rorschach was pacing back and forth while listening, holding his sign high, but now stops in his tracks. Daniel wouldn't leave it at that. He knew better.

And he didn't, seeming to take a moment to choose his words carefully, as if his partner were listening to him right now. Which—Rorschach shamefully thinks, bowing his head—he is.

“But even if he kills, breaks the law, and in this case, excuses rape, his heart is always in the right place. He still stops murders and upholds the law in some way. I guess with the Comedian he just--”

“Got a boner,” Laurel interrupts, laughing.

_What?_

“Rorschach? Hell no. Have you met the guy? He has to be the most anti—”

“Nope. He had a crush on the Comedian. That's my theory and I'm sticking to it.”

How _dare_ she? How dare this woman, this... _whore_ slither her way into Daniel's embrace only to corrupt him with her flimsy costume? Was it not enough to shove her sex down the throat of everyone within proximity of her? Now she's resorted to sexualizing his image behind his back and to his partner, no—

“Better watch what you say. He could be listening for all you know.”

The actual concern and underlying cheekiness of the comment makes him do a double take. Could he tell he was here? Or rather, was he trying to tell if he was here?

“So? Rorschach doesn't have any powers.”

As if he needs to be any more similar to the likes of her.

“That's what makes him dangerous.”

He wishes that he weren't wearing his disguise right now. He isn't sure what expression he's showing.

“It must be interesting though,” she continues, unknowingly treading on thin ice. “I didn't know sociopaths could fall in love.”

He's waiting for the traffic light to change now. The gap in the sidewalk barely counts as a road, especially if he was able to hear an entire conversation as if it were being spoken right next to him. He could just cross right now—there aren't any cars heading in his direction—but he needs the opportunity to stall, though whether it's because he wants to stop himself from doing something rash or merely just wants to come up with a plan to carry it out, he isn't sure.

The light changes and he begins to walk toward them, gripping his sign like his life depends on it. Or rather her life. Not that he would kill her. As much of a nuisance Ms. Juspeczyk is, she's still a crime fighter and had done nothing legally wrong, or at least illegal enough that she deserved to die for her sins. No, ending her existence would only cause more pain. How much it would cause Daniel, he wasn't sure. He didn't want to find out. Still, she sounds like she's in search of a sociopath, so it would only be right to show her one.

He wants to show her just how indifferent a sociopath is to the world. Show her Roche. Show her how a sociopath breaks when finding a random six year old girl fed to dogs by a complete stranger. Show her that in a world like this, where whores choose to save children only to treat them as if they're dead, beat them, exploit them...Show her why sociopaths are made, not born.

Yet...he _was_ being rash. Stupid. Harming a fellow crime fighter would only support the mask killer. He'd be in a relationship with a prostitute before he'd help a criminal. Besides, since when did Ms. Juspeczyk's opinion mean anything to him? When did Daniel's view of him begin to matter?

“Rorschach's definitely not a sociopath,” he hears Daniel say. “I think he cares too much.”

Walter bumps into the side of their table as he says that, not even daring to _think_ the name Rorschach as he walks past them. He mutters something that sounds like an apology and Daniel gives him an equally apologetic smile, though what for, he isn't sure. But he has a theory.

Ms. Juspeczyk lets the topic drop and says something that makes Daniel laugh.

He walks at a faster pace, not even paying attention to the traffic lights, more preoccupied on the mantra that repeats itself in his head every time he takes a step.

_He knows, he knows, he knows._

IV.

He's struggling on the ground, kicking and screaming, all etiquette and restraint abandoned in favor of chaotic rage. He had been framed, set up, trapped, and now the cops were trying to cuff him where he lied wiggling around on the ground, fallen after jumping out of the window of the flaming building. He wants to will them to the sidewalk with him, make them writhe on the concrete long after he's fled. He wants to, he wants to, but—

_It had been a trap. They had gone into an abandoned warehouse after following several leads that a trafficking ring was making a pit stop there as they garnered new recruits. The perpetrators had taken great detail to make the whole ordeal look as realistic as possible. And they had believed that it was, if the line of young women shackled to each other were anything to go by. But then they had started to move them through a back exit and it was when the duo had begun following their trail that things went south._

_Although it had seemed that all of the thugs had left the warehouse, Nite Owl and Rorschach ended up being ambushed from behind. They must have been waiting a few blocks away, the exiting of the traffic ring being there signal. They were outnumbered six to one, which would be bad if they were separated, but was just another day on the job when Nite Owl and Rorschach were patrolling together. They had taken out four of them immediately, leaving the duo to fight one on one with the more relentless thugs. While Rorschach was attempting to subdue his opponent, with as many high kicks and punches to the skull as he could manage, a sharp thwack could be heard in the otherwise quiet night. The next sound was a reluctant thud, and once Rorschach's guy finally accepted defeat and fell to the sidewalk, a quick glance over his shoulder confirmed his worries. Nite Owl lay sprawled on the concrete, somewhat coherent as he clutched his head. The last criminal standing was trying to load his gun. It must have jammed, so he opted to hit his partner over the head with it instead. Before either of them could figure out if the next pull on the trigger would release a bullet, Rorschach tackled the man and punched him into submission._

_He tied the group to a lamp post on the corner, used a payphone to leave a short and concise message to the police—Traffic ring. 43_ _rd_ _and 10_ _th_ _.— and proceeded to carry a delirious Nite Owl all the way home. Not for the first time, Rorschach wondered why Nite Owl was so hesitant in using his abilities. Daniel had told him what he could do the first time he opened his home to Rorschach:_

_“Extremely heightened magnetoreception,” Daniel had said that night. “It's usually found in birds and other animals. Basically, it allows me to detect a magnetic field and use that to perceive direction, altitude, or location. But for me it doesn't just stop there.”_

_Rorschach stood stiff, staring at him warily beneath the ink. An unspoken, “What else can you do?” stood between them, but Daniel had taken the silence as confusion. He placed a hand on his shoulder, making it tense from brick-like to solid concrete, and said with a smile that didn't seem as warm as usual, “Let's just say that if you ever get lost, I'll always be able to find you.”_

_That had been the first time Daniel had ever seemed intimidating, so where was that bravado now? Why hadn't he scanned the area for an ambush? Couldn't he sense their location? Maybe had to be intentionally looking for them. But then why wasn't he? It was only the next day after Rorschach had stayed up all night watching over him that Daniel answered his questions._

_“Just because some of us have better abilities doesn't mean we're automatically better people,” he had said, still wincing and clutching his head when he made any sudden movements._

_When he pointed out that it would've saved lives and prevented his injury, Daniel shook his head, dizzily, he noted. He stared at him as if really seeing him for the first time._

_“You don't know the limits to what I can do. I can find you, know what you're doing at any given time, at any place. I could track you down and smother you with a pillow while you're sleeping if I wanted to. It's an unfair advantage which okay, doesn't really make sense when it comes to criminals, but I just thought that if I were to ever be in a position of power like that, I'd only use it as a last resort. I'm sorry that I didn't scan the area and I'm sorry I got hurt. It won't happen again. Happy?”Daniel said, ending on a sour note._

_“No,” he had replied, checking his partner's wound again even though he had done it ten minutes ago when he was still sleeping. Could never be too careful. “You're still hurt. Do accept your apology though.”_

_A brief silence as he offered his hand to Daniel so he could get his lazy body off the sofa. They both smiled, though one was obviously hidden from the other, translated through inkblots instead. “You're a good man, Daniel.”_

Rorschach was not a good man. He did however, agree with Daniel's restriction of his powers, not that it applied to his dire situation now. It might never apply to him. His power was dramatically different. While Daniel refused to use his abilities out of respect, able to turn it on and off at will, Rorschach needed to resist using his powers so as not to be hunted down by the authorities 24/7. It never turned off. It was always there in the back of his mind, building its strength for the moment where he wanted it to be on. Now was not that time. It made him feel more genuine, better than these people fighting on the wrong side of the law, when he caused pain with just his body and not his mind.

He keeps fighting long after they've restrained him. Long after they've gotten to know his scent and the real sound of his voice. He keeps fighting even after they take his face. Even after he knows it's over.

 

V.

He takes a moment to look around in the hell of his making. These are all of his mistakes packed into one location. This prison is holding every criminal he failed to wipe clean off the map of this city. He should be grateful for being here. He's been given a second chance to get the job done.

Someone's started a riot. He isn't surprised. He's learned over the last week that there's only one emotion in prison: boredom. Everything else—lust, violence, depression—were unnecessary secondary traits with a mutual cause. Take his current situation as an example: Big Figure, a crime boss he had gotten thrown in here ages ago, is currently seething on the other side of the bars of his cell. His goons are trying to break in so they could “break in his ass.” Nothing more than simple revenge, which in prison equated to not having anything productive to do so instead using your former enemy as a plaything to pass the time. He'd laugh if he weren't more concerned with the fact that the city had let this scum live to amuse him in the first place. A few broken limbs later and he's out of his cell, walking down the hall and into the eye of the storm.

He could knock everyone out without lifting a finger. Have them take their turns trying to kill him and then return the favor to the entire prison population. There wouldn't be any regret this time. This was the lowest you could be in society. No one in this building doesn't know the feeling of holding a life in their hands and choosing to keep it instead of letting it go. Everyone here deserved what was coming to them.

But of course—of course!--he hears familiar voices as he turns a corner. Of course, what he finds in the next hall are his two—friends?--fighting their way through a crowd of prisoners and guards. Though a part of him does admit that he wasn't confident in seeing them ever again, one of the last things he expected to occur was to see Nite Owl and Silk Spectre planning a jail break for him. It wasn't necessary in the slightest, but it was...welcoming. He decides to drop his earlier qualms of the human contents of the prison and instead chooses to reminisce in the days that aren't today. _Wouldn't have hurt them anyway,_ he reminds himself. Swore he wouldn't.

He walks alongside Daniel, stepping in unison, and as they take out anyone in their way to Archie—like a fist through the building—Rorschach doesn't need his face in order to feel like Nite Owl's partner again. Now that the public knows what Walter looks like though, it's essential that he retrieve his uniform before he's able to walk amongst the citizens. He informs Daniel of this as they board the owlship, the only disagreement coming from Ms. Juspeczyk.

He wasn't very fond of Ms. Juspeczyk during their last encounter, but having a prison cell to himself gave him an unhealthy amount of time to think. She wasn't a whore. He had sewn apparel and accessories for hundreds of females during his time in the garment district. It was unpleasant, but he knew that some percentage of them were pure, innocent, good women. Ms. Juspeczyk didn't design her costume, Ms. Jupiter did. If the erotic magazine shoots and racy lifestyle were anything to go by, this made Ms. Juspeczyk the daughter of a whore. And Rorschach could relate to that.

He turns—now without his inkblot face—to face her, expression neutralized. “Nice to see you unharmed, Ms. Juspeczyk.”

She looked a bit shaken. Whether it was because of his politeness or just him even speaking to her, he wasn't sure. He wonders if she recognized him from the streets. (That was an absurd idea though. No one remembers a face they don't care about). But he wonders what would change if she did.

“Just call me Laurie. Everybody else does.”

“Not everybody else, Laurel,” he instantly replies, turning around to look out Archie's windows as they head toward his apartment. But before he does, he thinks he sees the hint of a smile across her lips.

 

I.

There's so much pain resonating within his being that he can't tell it's origin. The city was out of sight in the white flurries of Antarctic snow, and so must have been out of mind as well as everyone quit in what has to be the city's darkest night. Thousands of citizens, of people, _of humans,_ just disintegrated in one swift blow as if they never even existed or mattered, and the former masked “heroes” of New York just turn their cheeks? Where is the need for answers that they all mutually held inside of themselves just moments ago? Where is the just cause that they all grasped in their hands, too fragile to call teamwork but too sturdy and concrete to just deem coincidental? They have their cause, they've gotten their answers, now where's their action? Where is their outrage? He's full of it right now, even more so than the pain that calls out in every step that he takes away from the former Crimebusters and toward the white expanse of unknown territory. Pain caused by so many untended wounds to the soul, but none worse than his partner's betrayal, his compromise. The confused look he had received when Rorschach didn't follow his lead. The furrowed eyebrows and frown tinged with worry as they said their silent goodbyes, only one person in the room still wearing a mask. Only one person left that cares.

Then, his inevitable demise. All of the work he'd done and left unfinished has led to this moment. A giant blue man with his hand raised at him, offering oblivion within a handshake. Daniel running after him as if he can be the unstoppable force to his immovable object. Now Daniel's standing on the outskirts of the tunnel, watching the exchange between him and Dr. Manhattan. It's too much. Rorschach deserved a choice, everyone deserved a choice and these people had used theirs to take away the rights of others. He deserves a choice and he hadn't gotten one as a child and was being forced to make one now. He feels like he deserves better and nothing all at once.

Walter has been holding it in until now. He's known his capabilities from a young age, known that whatever life threw in his direction could be ricocheted with ease. But something within him, whether stubbornness or possibly compassion, had always made him second guess himself. _What about those around you?_ He would think, chastising himself. _What's the catch?_ Right now however, was Armageddon. And he'd be dead before he let that stop him. It was time to make the untouchable man feel something for once in his life. That same irritating small voice in the corner of his consciousness thinks: _Maybe he'll change his mind once he sees the misery that all of this has caused and will continue to do so unless something is done to reverse it. Maybe everything will be okay._ It was a thought so stupid and optimistic that Rorschach wonders if it even came from his own head. It wouldn't happen again.

He hears himself telling Dr. Manhattan to get it over with, hears Daniel's tortured breaths as he runs towards him. He defiantly keeps his eyes open as Manhattan releases his power unto him and keeps them open still as he responds in turn.

 

He takes a deep, forty-five year old breath, and finally lets go.

 

That day, several screams could be heard in the deserts of Antarctica and none of them are his.

**Author's Note:**

> And so marks my first contribution to the Watchmen fandom. More to come.


End file.
